Life is But a Walking Shadow
by Tracy Diane Miller
Summary: Sequel to "Tempting Fate."


Life is But a Walking Shadow  
  
Summary: This very short story is a continuation of "Tempting Fate."  
  
Disclaimer: Gary Hobson, of course, is not my creation. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made. Some of the dialogue that appears in this story belongs to the writer of the Early Edition episode "Fate."  
  
Author: Tracy Diane Miller E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com  
  
Life is But a Walking Shadow  
  
The distinctive wail permeated the night air as the ambulance zipped through the Chicago streets towards Columbia General Hospital.  
  
The paramedic flanked the injured hero insisting that he lie down on the stretcher. The paramedic asked him questions about how he was feeling. He answered the inquiries. The obvious limp he sported was a telling sign of the condition of his leg. And his insides hurt, too. Internal injuries certainly weren't outside the realm of possibility considering the amount of debris that had rained upon him from that sub-basement collapse. He wore a gash on his forehead; he could feel the stickiness of his blood as a few drops escaped from his wound and journeyed down his face. The paramedic cleaned and bandaged the wound. The paramedic told him that the wound didn't appear too deep so it seemed unlikely that he would require stitches.  
  
Yet, he felt detached from the knowledgeable voice that bandied about medical terminology with relative ease.  
  
It didn't take long for the ambulance to reach Columbia General Hospital. He was quickly ushered into a hospital room where a nurse undressed him and put him in the bed. Soon, an IV dangled possessively from his arm leaking fluids into his veins. He didn't think that he needed an IV, but the nurse said something about "exposure" while he was in that carpet store. The nurse scribbled furiously on the chart. A doctor entered the room and conferred with the nurse. The doctor and the nurse mumbled some other things, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. His fatigue over his ordeal coupled with the drugs dripping into his body took effect. He felt like an uninvited voyeur observing a medical drama. The whole experience seemed so surreal to him. Maybe if he just closed his eyes.  
  
"Count the living, not the dead" the voice echoed in his brain. The old man's words had profoundly touched him; they were like a buoy thrown to him to keep him from drowning in an ocean of guilt and despair. And he understood them. The words didn't mean that he should forget Jeremiah, that he could ever forget his failure in saving Jeremiah. Instead, the words were meant as a poignant reminder of all the lives he had saved, of the futures he had given because he was the guy selected by some unseen force to receive tomorrow's newspaper today. And the words were meant as a reminder of the significance of his own life. He had believed that his obituary in the paper was intended as a punishment. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe this bizarre, twisted turn of events foreshadowing his death was meant as a gift. The parents of that teenage couple he had saved would likely agree. He had given those young people the gift of life.  
  
Maybe whoever sends the paper realized that in his self-loathing seeing a story about the death of the teenagers in the collapse of the sub-basement of the carpet store would have undermined his confidence. Maybe he would have subconsciously substituted the carpet store for that roof top and been too afraid to even try to save those teenagers then been tormented by his inaction: the proverbial Catch 22. Or maybe...maybe in saving them, in trading his life for theirs, he could find atonement. But had he really been prepared to die?  
  
The drugs evading his system were doing more than nourishing his body; they were offering him clarity of mind. It's funny what thoughts can be awaken by a drug induced state. It had been over fifteen years since he attended high school and many classes he had long since forgotten, but a Shakespearean passage from "Macbeth" assaulted his mind at this moment: "Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."  
  
Maybe Shakespeare had been wrong. Life had to signify something.  
  
The paper had made him so cynical with people exposing the worst parts of themselves as he went through the daily ritual of saving ingrates. But was this all that his life would be about? How he longed to get married again and to become a father. Sometimes he thought that it was selfish of him to wish to bring an innocent child into the world, an unspoiled life that would have to face societal ugliness like hatred and greed. Then he would quickly dismiss this notion. The perpetuation of life created from a man and woman's love was one of the most beautiful miracles and giving that child the gift of life, of love, of family, of friends as well as inspiring the enjoyment of some of the natural wonders like the trees, the clouds, the stars, and the oceans was priceless.  
  
He felt himself drifting to sleep. Life did signify something and at that moment, he felt grateful that he could close his eyes and wake up to find tomorrow. That he was alive.  
  
The End. 


End file.
